


Landslide

by calydon



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Quill Feels, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Walkman Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calydon/pseuds/calydon
Summary: After the funeral, Gamora does her best to take care of Peter.





	Landslide

**Author's Note:**

> Because after all that, Peter could use a good cry and some snuggles.
> 
> The title is from the Fleetwood Mac song of the same name.

When the dust begins to settle, Gamora is the one who goes to check up on Peter, and nobody argues with that.

He retreated to one of the cabins after the funeral ended, looking more tired than she thinks she’s ever seen him; she stayed with the others, giving him some space. It’s been almost an hour now, and she wants to make herself useful, try to make something even a little bit right and suppress the unrest inside her. She wants to see him.

So she makes her way down the hall to his cabin, stops outside his door and listens. She hears nothing from inside.

”Peter?”

Almost immediately, she can hear his voice through the door.

”Come in.”

She slides the door open and slips inside, closing it behind her. There’s a weak light turned on in the ceiling and he’s curled up on a large bed, facing away from her. Somehow, he looks small, lying there in the dim light.

She lingers for a few seconds, shifts her weight from one leg to the other, suddenly unsure of what to do.

”Do you want to be alone?” she asks, keeping her voice low, trying not to disturb the calm.

He seems to think about it for a couple of seconds before he answers.

”No,” he says, his voice muffled by the pillow.

She walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it, and he turns onto his back to look at her. He doesn’t look as if he’s been crying, she notices. He just looks exhausted.

She takes his hand in hers, carefully running her thumb over the bandage across his knuckles. Even that small, insignificant scratch-wound makes her feel like her entire body stiffens, and it scares her a little.

He squeezes her hand gently and she looks up at his face. 

”Are you hungry?” she asks.

He shakes his head. For a few moments, all they do is look at each other, holding each other’s hands. 

After a while, she withdraws hers, pulls her boots off and climbs in next to him, facing him, letting her hand rest on his shoulder. Tentatively, he wraps his arm around her waist. When she pulls him closer, he tucks his face into the crook of her neck, shifting and moving until he’s comfortable, and lets out a long sigh against her skin. She’s hugged Peter before, but never like this, never this intimately — and yet, it doesn’t make her nervous. She strokes his back slowly, feels how he relaxes more and more with every breath, and she can feel some of her own tension beginning to dissipate as well. He’s warm and safe in her arms, and for the first time that day, she realizes how tired she really is.

It’s a while before either of them speaks.

”Groot likes your new music player,” she says quietly.

She can feel him smile against her neck.

”I could tell,” he says.

His breath is warm against her skin and she can feel his stubble brushing against her when he speaks. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but a comforting one.

”Are the others still up?” he asks.

”Most of them.”

She brings her hand up to the nape of his neck and runs her fingers through his hair, still damp from his shower, and it draws a hum of appreciation from him.

”It’s funny,” he mumbles. ”I’m so tired. But I can’t sleep.”

There’s a sting in her chest at that.

”I know the feeling.”

They stay quiet for a while after that, curled up against each other as she continues stroking his back. The room is silent, except for the occasional groans and creaks of the ship and a few subdued voices in the distance. It feels like they have all the time in the world. 

When Peter speaks again, he’s so quiet that she can barely hear him.

”I keep picturing it.”

She swallows, tries to decide if she should say something about it all, or just listen. Finally, she speaks softly against his temple, keeping her palm flat against his back.

”I’m so sorry, Peter.”

That seems to set something loose inside him, and it’s only a few seconds before she can feel his shoulders beginning to hitch and her neck becoming wet with hot tears. She pulls him closer and he tightens his arm around her waist, his body beginning to tremble as he cries. It’s a silent thing at first, but it quickly grows desperate, like he can’t stop now that the floodgates are open. As if the magnitude of everything that’s happened is finally crashing down on him, demanding to be released.

She feels so painfully useless as she holds him, wishing so deeply that she could do something, that she could take all his pain and grief and carry them for him. She buries her nose in his hair and lets him hold onto her like a lifeline, and he cries and cries, each sob tearing viciously through the silence. 

When he’s emptied himself and the tremors in his body begin to wane, he takes a few deep breaths and wipes at his cheek with his hand.

”I’m sorry,” he mutters.

”Don’t be.”

He stays put, curled up against her, his breaths catching sporadically for a few minutes longer. 

”I feel so stupid.”

She’s taken aback for a moment.

”Why?”

It takes a few seconds for him to respond, as if he’s reluctant to admit it.

”I keep thinking about the Walkman.” He sniffles quietly, lets out a sigh before he continues. ”And it’s dumb. It’s so dumb.”

”Peter,” she begins softly, her heart sinking at the thought of him berating himself.

”I mean, it’s a _thing_ ,” he goes on. ”So many worse things could have happened, and I’m all torn up because he broke my Walkman.”

She pictures it, not for the first time, and suppresses a sudden surge of anger in her chest. She thinks about all the times she’s seen him fiddle with it, all the times he’s shared his music with the rest of them, the time he tried to explain one of the songs to her when they were both up late into the night, so earnest and eager to make her understand why he loved it. When he finally opened his mother’s present and played the new tape out loud, for all of them to hear, and how long ago that seems. 

”Peter,” she tries again. ”It wasn’t just a thing. We all know that.” She takes a deep breath. ”It was all you had left of your mother. Of course it was important to you. You risked your _life_ for it.”

He squirms in her arms at that, and she pulls back and nudges him so that she can look into his eyes. 

”You are not stupid, Peter,” she says with some force. ”You loved your mother. Nobody thinks less of you for it.”

He looks up at her, his eyes bloodshot and his skin flushed a patchy red, and she hesitates for a second before she goes on.

”If I had something that belonged to my parents, I would never want to lose it.”

He meets her eyes for a long moment, and it’s a relief to her when he gives a little nod before settling back into the space between her neck and shoulder. It’s bad enough that he’s in pain — the last thing he needs is to be blaming himself for it. That, at least, can be avoided. 

”How are you doing?” he croaks, and it makes her smile just a little. He’s just had the worst day of his entire life, and he’s asking her how _she’s_ doing. She shouldn’t be surprised. 

”I’m okay.”

There are so many things to say, things to process and clear up, but she can feel him beginning to sag against her and her own mind becoming foggy. After a few minutes, he’s asleep, his breaths coming at a slow and steady pace.

She sleeps like a rock but wakes up in the early morning hours, disturbed by some shift in the ship’s machinery, and realizes after a while that she won’t be able to go back to sleep. So, she lets her mind drift, from the funeral to Peter’s warmth and the feeling of his breath against her neck, to the ache in her shoulder. She wonders how far away Nebula is, when she’ll see her again. If she’ll see her again.

Eventually, Peter shifts in her arms, the rhythm of his breathing changing as he begins to wake up, and she runs her hand lightly up and down his arm.

”Just sleep,” she mumbles into his hair. 

He dozes off again almost as quickly, and she waits for morning to roll around and a new day to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [enigma731](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731) for the beta, and for giving me the idea in the first place! She talked about wanting a fic with Walkman feels, where Gamora cuddles Peter and tells him it makes sense for him to cry about losing his connection to his home.


End file.
